


the phoenix, to ash

by Tridraconeus



Series: War Scion [1]
Category: Paladins: Champions Of The Realm (Video Game)
Genre: Crossfaction, Death, F/F, Gals being pals, Infiltration, War, war is hell but sometimes the enemy commander is HOT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 21:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12067707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tridraconeus/pseuds/Tridraconeus
Summary: The first time Ash saw her, she was rising into the air like a phoenix; dress whipping around her ankles, unarmored even in the heat of a pitched battle and yet unscathed—and felled a dozen men with a single word. After that battle—a victory, but just, and infuriatingly close—Ash asked the company who she was. Her wide-eyed questions were met with incredulous scoffs, and those who were not busy mourning their fallen brothers took the time to fill Ash in with stories around a raging bonfire.Lian. Scion of House Aico. Fearless, and graceful, and—as Ash thought privately, the most beautiful thing to touch the blood-soaked fields of battle.





	the phoenix, to ash

**Author's Note:**

> *taps mic**intones* gaaaaaay  
> art by [gsquare-art](http://gsquare-art.tumblr.com/)!

The first time Ash saw her, she was rising into the air like a phoenix; dress whipping around her ankles, unarmored even in the heat of a pitched battle and yet unscathed—and felled a dozen men with a single word. After that battle—a victory, but just, and infuriatingly close—Ash asked the company who she was. Her wide-eyed questions were met with incredulous scoffs, and those who were not busy mourning their fallen brothers took the time to fill Ash in with stories around a raging bonfire.

Lian. Scion of House Aico. Fearless, and graceful, and—as Ash thought privately, the most beautiful thing to touch the blood-soaked fields of battle. This new opponent kept showing up, less in skirmishes and more in the pivotal battles. Ash, with something near fear, noticed how her presence raised enemy morale. She found herself surrounded on all sides more than once, charging to safety instead of into a knot of enemies, and losses mounted—the Scion, glowing gold, and her men, howling into the sky. Ash found herself cursing House Aico as she bound up her wounds in gauze and waited for their medic to close them.

She forged a name for herself—heard it from the mouth of a captured agent of the enemy, right before she sent him hurtling off of a cliff to his death,

The _War Machine_.

Did she deserve it? Yes, of course. As her fellows were cut down, new ones rose up alongside her; they fell too, and another crop grew from the carnage. Ash remained, steadfast. She took the name for herself-- _War Machine_. Slowly, but surely, she started to see the difference a name made as the enemy broke rank in the face of her charge.

But it wasn’t enough, and this night saw her leading an exhausted group to find camp as a scouting group separated from the vanguard and melded with the trees. Ash knew, with a heavy heart, that the morning would see only half of them alive. The remnants of her haggard vanguard settled down for the night in one of the clearings that they’d managed to secure, and blood still slicked the grass when she set off at sunset on the patrol route. It was only a measure of luck and restlessness that saw her volunteering for patrol duty, really—normally she took what rest she could. This night, unrest seized her. For the most part, she found a deer path that circled the camp and followed it. Her legs ached.

There was no quiet night. After an hour of nothing but the rustling of leaves in crisp night air, Ash caught sight of white fabric slipping behind a tree trunk.

Really. If this was a spy, it was a poor one. Who wore white in the dead of night, and under the gleam of a full moon at that? Ash stalked forwards—not graceful, and never having deluded herself as being such—and snared the intruder around the waist, grabbing at their braided belt that hung at their—her—hips in a draping of gold. Of silk. It was deceptively soft. Ash pulled her into the open, rough and unmindful of what might be sent flying from the harsh jerk.

Oh, _shit._ The elegant planes of the Aico Scion stared her down, bright in surprise but not scared.

“Unhand me.” Lian straightened up and shot Ash an entirely steely look. Ash caught herself and scoffed.

“What, afraid that I’ll scratch your tiara?” That, perhaps, was uncalled for. Stung with images of Lian and her rifle glowing with royal energy, she’d said the first thing to come to mind. Lian cleared her throat and eyed Ash, up and down as if Ash were standing at attention for her, not seizing her by the belt. Ash fought the tingling sense of inadequacy such a look wrought within her.

“I see you often in the front lines.” Lian graciously ignored the gaffe and bluster, somehow managing to look down her nose at Ash despite being around her height. It was… strangely intimidating, almost moreso than when she rose into the air to cut down the enemy. Her enemy. _Ash’s_ battalion.

Ash swallowed, fisted her hand in the soft material of Lian’s belt. “That’s my placement, yeah.”

Lian shook her head, as if she were merely mildly disappointed and not cornered. “The word that concerns me here is _often_. Normally, someone as bullheaded as you would be dead.”

Ash didn’t know whether to read that as a compliment or condescending, and—well, it was probably a good mixture of both. She squared her shoulders and resigned herself to playing second fiddle in whatever this counted as, conversation or elongated threat. “Get to the point before I shout and alert the whole battalion.”

“I would say it was refreshing to be spoken to as an equal, but we are not, and you should show me the proper respect.” Lian raised her chin. Ash stood firm even though that glare could likely melt glass with the pure force behind it, the heat. Gone was the icy presence in battle; Ash felt fire, and almost wanted to jerk back as if burned. She did not. She only inclined her head, less a measure of the demanded respect and more a challenge.

“There is no respect in war, only honor.”

“Well said. You would know, though, war machine.” Lian tilted her head. Ash’s eyes followed the cascade of her hair, loosely coiffed and reflecting back the meager moonlight in pale shades of ivory, and she finally loosened the hold on the braided belt. Her stomach tightened. Flipped. _War Machine_. It sounded different in Lian’s voice, less of a name and more of a title. It certainly sounded a touch more _dignified._

“Well? Anything to say?” It felt awkward and clumsily-placed and Ash knew that Lian thought the same if the delicate curl of her lip said anything. She nodded, though, and their eyes met. The moment hung in the air, thick and choking like smoke before Lian broke the tense silence.

“Kneel.”

Ash stayed still, holding Lian at arm’s length. The warrior smiled, showing no teeth, and yet Ash felt as if at any second she could rip her throat out with nothing but. The barrel of her rifle bumped into Ash’s belly. Despite the thick armor, Ash knew what it could do. It hummed, cold through the armor.

“I won’t ask again.”

Ash scowled, but—she was smart enough to know when she was beaten, and running away now was tantamount to cowardice. She knelt, released Lian’s belt and felt the softness of it against her fingers one last time. It was with distinct unease she noticed that the mouth of the rifle now rested at her forehead. Lian, though, didn’t take the easy shot. She let the rifle raise above Ash’s head instead.

“I must admit, you are interesting. If only you were on the right side.”

Ash stared at the ground. Her palm rested in the dirt. “I _am_ on the right side.”

The chill of the rifle settled on her shoulder and made it ache. Lian sighed. “My side,” she corrected, and finally stepped back. The dress swished around her calves, shorter than the ones she wore into battle, and Ash still didn’t rise even though Lian was now safely away.

“I’ll watch for you in battle.”

“Next time, I won’t let you get the drop on me.” Her voice held the rough and frustrated timbre of a promise. Lian laughed low in her throat and turned, shaking her head.

“I do admire you, War Machine. It is… an honor to face an opponent such as yourself. But war machines can be broken, and the mightiest stones worn away by the tide.”

Ash recognized it for what it was: a threat. She stubbornly refused to respond, though something angry leapt to her throat. She kept it caged behind her teeth, and growled instead.

“You _would_ be an asset.”

She turned, then, dress brushing against her legs. Ash watched her leave—it felt like betrayal.

Ash only rose to her feet once the Lian disappeared properly into the underbrush. She then noticed, with a groan and a feeling close to impending doom, the sparkle of a jade hairpin halfway buried in the dirt. She picked it up and tucked it into her pocket.

She’d give it back. Hell or high water. And since Lian surely wouldn’t come back to enemy territory after being caught, that meant…

Dammit.


End file.
